the month wraps around me – a cloud of haphazard seeming nothing-ness, a curtain of time zipped through the sweater — i wish i could be of more help, of more use, i wish i did not feel guilt for not being able to physically help ; i try to rest inside of my little body, be at peace with myself, be at fundamental solace – i am grateful for my hands, and what they make; i am grateful for my son, and how he smiles up at me through his eyes and claps wildly at the silliest of incantations; i am grateful for the sun, the rain, the bursts of spring that sing at my sides; i am grateful for the sound of the wind blowing through the branches, for food and clean water, for joy and safety ; i am hoping for everyone, for all things, for all beginnings to begin again;; i am hoping


egg bobbles on the top of the soil, you, glee-bucket and basket ready are full of light, full of april and its tender wishes towards the dandelion fields, the purple myrtles, the graciousness of grass – the firmament of birth and rebirth // capture towards the daylight, rapture towards the timelessness of searching / i hurriedly wrap your tiny gift in pastel silk and watch as the sprout blossoms of the new green world lends itself to your discovery / you laughter smile cannot be replaced, the five-year-old wonder that will always hold more weight than gold ; the diamond of your eyes flashing / your trill of golden hair flashing in the sunlight – silk flow fabric ties glancing over the grass // this rebirth sound, this resounding sound of the clouds meeting the earth, and resting, releasing, and re-starting again

the endless hyperbole

rattle sun-star – fragments of eternal light pouring down on us now, piles of endless photons smothering the grass in chlorophyll and love ; rain down, the fullness of molecules carried from some other ocean ;; radiate, some resonance of the new season peeking out of a daffodil’s eye ;; saturate me, the rest of the world turning in time, the turn of the wheel wondering back at me, the wonder of the earth twirling it’s dance — bird song and cloud thunder, the rapture of energy trilling up the trunks of trees, the curtain of dandelions pulling themselves over the green stage

your little voice i hear over the hill and through the bushes, putting sentences together and discovering spelling between your teeth, reading the world around you and slowly, seemless-ly, coming in to consciousness and the wild world that sings to him – in every splintered cell, every swollen blossom — a heiroglyph, a letter to us all ; the endless hyperbole of being alive

i wish we deserved bernie ; i wish we all treated each other better, more fairly , i wish we thought of ourselves as a we, viewed politics as a means to take care of one another, rather than a tribal and petty battle royale

this time

every day a slow tendril, curling and unfurling – every acid washed blossom fever a call towards the wild – every wildness we all inhabit, a dream towards the unending future – this spring, the strangest springboad, the utter and endless transformation of the world into a new place altogether – all together // all tenderly cupping our hands towards each other, all reaching, all sitting quietly and asking for nothing more ;; the strangest thoughts have been coming to me, because my brain has to flip this or else I will be swallowed by it — I’ve been allowing myself to think — what a gift this time is, what a true gift (for those of us not suffering and ill) — to settle down, to need nothing, to race towards nothing, to be forced simply to live, with no goals or accomplishments or the ticking of tocks towards us — simply the ending time of spring unfurling like a slow bud — her glory all around us, unabashedly hitting us over the head with nature’s magnificence – everyone forced to stop their rattle train of thoughts, their mill wheel of endless hurrying — to be with ourselves – to sort through our thoughts – to sit with the uncomfortable feeling and to be forced to sit through it – to push past it – to be able to take the time for ourselves, to gaze inwards at ourselves and outwards at the brilliant limbs of trees outside ourselves – to look towards the sky and watch the blossoms bud — what a gift this time is